Hogwarts, Estd 920 AD
by Marett Graves
Summary: It's 915 AD, the Founders are young and too rich for their own good. With all the hormones [and knickers] flying, they haven’t had time to think about the building their school- and- Draco Malfoy is in the 10th C, his arrival is messing up the timeline.
1. Default Chapter

1 *  
  
2 Hogwarts, Estd. 920 AD  
  
Prologue  
  
*  
  
This is a story about love.  
  
No, not the mushy, pink-hearts, will-you-be-my-valentine kind. More like the jealousy-inducing, gut-wrenching, turmoil filled love that changes civilisations. After going through one such experience, most people generally agree that eating an extremely large lunch and going on the rollercoaster ride to hell can achieve most of the same effects. Except, of course, for the sex. Which is why people continue to go through the 99.9% of shit.  
  
That, and nothing else, is the basic reason for most great events in history. Sex. Until everyone in the room understands this particular Fact Of Life, this story will make absolutely no sense.  
  
But this isn't a story about sex. [Well, not completely, anyway]  
  
It's more like a story of what happens when love meets lust in the middle of a Historic Event and they decide they like each other's company; and a git from the future manages to royally screw up the timeline.  
  
But of course, that doesn't include the more interesting bits…such as what exactly is it that Salazar does in his Chamber of Secrets? And is Gryffindor's sword really as long as it's rumoured to be? And is Helga a natural redhead? Well, maybe not the latter. Everyone knows that the only way you can have hair that particular shade of red is through liberal application of 'Fiery Hair in Five Easy Incantations!' or, in more extreme cases, by being a Weasley, which Helga is most decidedly not.  
  
There is also pain.  
  
Fire breathing, scintillating, devouring pain that walks hand in hand with love. The kind of pain that you don't want to escape because the brief periods between the hurt are like finding that last piece of chocolate between the empty wrappers. The pain comes from the darkness that lies behind the comedy, behind the flesh and bone to the souls forged in fire and blood. This is the pain that God felt when man turned against him, this is the pain that he cursed on man ever since that time, this is a pain that has a life of it's own and uses hearts merely as tools. This is betrayal and longing and fear and love and frustration and pride and hope and hatred mixed into an indescribable poison….  
  
So all in all, this is a story about life…and the temporal plumbing system.  
  
Funnily enough, the two get intertwined a lot more often than a person would think.  
  
* 


	2. The Handyman Can

1 *  
  
2 Hogwarts, Estd. 920 AD  
  
Chapter One: The Handyman Can  
  
*  
  
It rained like God was trying to drown the earth.  
  
Which, knowing God, Draco thought was probably true. It wasn't that Draco Malfoy personally knew God, inasmuch as the same way nobody could claim to personally know Draco. The knowledge was mostly an understanding based on the way that, just when you thought you were home free, life suddenly grabbed you by the balls and demanded repayment for every blood-drenched drop of happiness you had ever experienced. Draco was arrogant and self- centred, but not to such an extent that he thought God manufactured potholes expressly in his highway. God was just a nasty vindictive bugger bent on twisting up people's lives until they resembled a Picasso-esque corkscrew. To understand Him, you had to let go of logic, reason and rationality. It was a practice that Draco excelled in.  
  
How bloody wonderful- here he was on a Saturday night, at home and completely alone. Well, strictly speaking, he wasn't quite alone; despite his father's untimely death and his mother's marriage to Marco Zabini, the manor still possessed a full complement of servants. Almost an army of them. It made Draco decidedly uncomfortable that all they needed to do was pull together against him…and there would be nothing he could do about it… Ah, but Lucius had never trusted much in the intrinsic goodness of man, either, and Draco was quite sure there were some kind of wards that would prevent such an occurrence. His father had told him once, but, as with many of his father's other conversations with him, Draco tried not to remember.  
  
The lightening lit up the conservatory, illuminating the half scattered raindrops in a sudden blaze of rainbow before dying out into just darkness and pattering noise. There was an ornate wooden fireplace directly in front of him, which illuminated his features in soft amber light and flickered scarlet in his grey eyes. It was carved into the Malfoy coat of arms- a devilishly elaborate creation invented by Caligula Germanicus Malfoy I. He had a rather bent mind, which explained quite a lot about him, and, indirectly, the entire family line. He had died with his dearest friend's knife in his back. He had died thinking he was God.  
  
Yes indeed, Draco thought, that Caligula was a twisted man.  
  
Today, of course, they had snipped the "excess" [Lucius' words, not his] bits out of the insignia, leaving the black-and-green shield and a white dragon circled around it, biting it's own tail. Of course, right over it was a banner proclaiming their traditional motto 'Veritas Est Ornamentum'- Truth is a Weapon. He had always had the sneaking suspicion that his ancestor had also intended a play on the word 'ornamental' as well… It seemed like something an inward-looking mind would find interesting…and somewhat appropriate for the Malfoys. Draco sometimes thought he would have liked the old bastard…he'd have probably had some interesting thoughts on life. He took another deep sip of the excellent claret- this particular year had the best bouquet he had ever had the pleasure of experiencing.  
  
He felt a little…eccentric…curled up in a crushed velvet chair at 3am in the conservatory, sipping wine alone. Of course, things would have been different if his father was alive. In all probability, he would have been out with some vapid social climbers, getting drunk out of his mind. Despite what they said about him, Lucius Malfoy was a good man. Well…good for Draco, in any case. He had always made it clear that while he had consented to be another's subservient, his son would never know the Dark Lord's brand.  
  
But then the arsehole had gone and gotten himself killed by an overzealous Auror, and the Dark Lord had decided that Draco would make the perfect replacement. What could Draco do but accept? All a refusal would have achieved was his death, and, as odd as it might have seemed, Draco didn't aspire to that particular achievement. His fingers travelled almost involuntarily to his left wrist and pushed back the hem of the silk shirt to expose the black, charred Dark Mark. That was Voldemort's legacy- burned into the skin of his followers.  
  
The fool's ego over inflated, and Dumbledore and the Do-Gooders soon cut him down to size. They killed him well and good this time, two weeks after Draco had started to wear the mask. And bloody uncomfortable it was, too. If those idiots had just speeded up their plan…his teeth clenched…he could have avoided seeing so much horror and pain, mostly his own. There had been a trial after that, high publicity, of course. They had let him off, finally, because he hadn't had enough time to actually do anything and he had been seventeen years old. Not to mention the healthy dose of monetary compensation the judge had received. But the bloody damage was done; people looked at him like a monster. They heard his name and their eyes travelled down to his arm, to the Mark. They didn't see anything else…  
  
So who needed them anyway?  
  
It was a logical certainty that if a person cannot get what they want, they immediately tell themselves that it wasn't worth having in the first place [which would be called Jonathan Barley's 'Sour Grapes' principle in one of those places where people occupy themselves with making up as many facts as humanly possible under the guise of 'sociology']. There was a time that the Malfoy name meant something [well, something other than oh-my-God-that-Dark- Wizard-who-roams-free-come-away-little-Robbie!]…but then, that was something his father would have said.  
  
Draco made it a point never to say anything he thought Lucius would have said; it was a move made mostly out of spite, in case his spirit could still hear him. "This is all your bloody fault, you know," he muttered, not having the energy to be angry anymore.  
  
There was a slight rustling noise and a servant was beside him. Draco had stopped questioning how it was that menials managed that particular trick- he had a feeling it was a complex law to do with space, time and cosmic humour. People often discounted the latter, mostly to their own detriment. It was, of course, Mrs Ponde, a woman far too old to be his mother. She was very…square…and no-nonsense, with a hard, thin mouth and lifeless blue eyes.  
  
Lucius had engaged her as a maid when she was eighteen years old, as a payment for some service or other that he had provided. She had been in the family ever since then, and had been elevated to the position of nanny when Narcissa Malfoy proved as responsible a mother as a reptile with places to go and people to see. Even Draco's earliest memories included Mrs Ponde.  
  
There was something about her that people found unnerving; it was the way she just stared at them. Draco had the firm belief that if faced with an army of ten thousand heavily-armed troops screaming things like 'We drink nanny's blood!' and 'Die, Mrs Ponde, die, die!', [generally, a large body of adrenaline infused men lacked somewhat in the innovativeness area] she would simply look at them. And they would, in the fashion of errant schoolboys everywhere, cough indistinctly and shuffle away.  
  
"Is there anything I can do for you, sir?" It was a perfectly polite question, which she managed to infuse an air of diffident insolence into.  
  
There were a lot of things that a person could learn from Mrs Ponde.  
  
"Not really, Mrs Ponde."  
  
"Is that a yes or a no, Master Malfoy?"  
  
"That's Lord Malfoy, now, Mrs Ponde," he reminded, a little chidingly. It didn't do to have servants speak as if Lucius was still alive. "It has been for a year now."  
  
In a rare exhibition of emotion, her cheeks coloured slightly. "My deepest apologies, Lord Malfoy," but there was a slight stress to her words that left him feeling vaguely mocked. "I didn't mean to imply-,"  
  
"I know you didn't." He snapped, far too loudly. It was probably the wine kicking in. "You never do, Mrs Ponde."  
  
"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, sir." There it was, that perfectly blank gaze.  
  
"What's your first name?"  
  
"Does that really matter, sir?" She raised one thick eyebrow.  
  
"I've asked you so many times over the years, and you've never answered. Why is that, Mrs Ponde?"  
  
"Well, sir," she paused for a moment, as if gathering her thoughts. "I suppose it's because of the same reason you stopped calling me Nanny once you turned six, milord."  
  
Draco looked at her curiously for a moment, trying to discern anything in those pale pools of hers, but gave up. There were some things than men were just not meant to know. "It probably is, Mrs Ponde. I won't be requiring anything further tonight, you may retire."  
  
"Indeed."  
  
He looked away for a moment and she was gone, as he had expected.  
  
Bloody cosmic jokes.  
  
The master of the house leaned back in his chair once more and savoured the warmth of the fire…it seemed, quite suddenly…just perfect.  
  
Bad choice of words. In retrospect, Draco pinned that down as the moment where everything began.  
  
There was a sudden flash and a kabong of which Quickdraw McGraw would have been proud of, before the room filled with dense orange-green choking smoke…  
  
The last thing Draco could remember thinking was 'Bugger. I knew it.'  
  
*  
  
The very faint, faraway sound of laughter faded away after Draco opened his eyes. There was a harsh glare emanating from the ceiling, winding around the figure towering over him. Once the world had come into focus, he rethought the adjective 'towering'…it was more like 'small, quaint cottaging', as far as those things went. Draco had thought Mundungus Fletcher in a kilt was the worst sight on two legs he'd ever have to see; the creature that stood in front of him powerfully contradicted that idea.  
  
A bright pink woollen sweater masked a moss green shirt with a happy little cartoon-family printed on it, overlaid with neon yellow 'World's Number One Handyman!' loopy writing. He was wearing a bulky camouflage hip-bag with bits of string, a large roll of scotch tape and a gleaming pair of scissors poking out of it. To complete the image were pink sweatpants cut off just below the knee, pink and black striped socks, black keds with similarly pink laces and a highlighter yellow baseball cap turned backwards. It must also be mentioned that the apparition in pink was also just below three feet tall, with a spiky beard.  
  
"Er- hello." Draco said, experimentally.  
  
The being veritably puffed up in affront. "Oh, hello is it? Hello! You come here through seven dimensions, bugger up the entire timeline and create a gaping bloody hole in the bowels of reality and that's the best you can come up with?" By the end of the little tirade, the little man almost had tears in his eyes.  
  
Draco would have probably been more taken with shock if he hadn't been wondering about reality's bowels, and the associated problems that would come with it. But perhaps, looking at the dwarf's expression, this wasn't the best time to ask about that sort of thing. It was probably just a metaphor anyway. "Sorry…but where did you say I was?"  
  
"That's right- typical of your species! Don't ask me whether I'm all right. Don't ask me about the hours I've spent trying to fix other people's bollocks-up!"  
  
"Er- how are you, then?"  
  
"Oh, so that's the way of it, is it?" He puffed his chest out even more belligerently. Draco thought only puffer-fish were capable of such rapid expansion. "How am I? How am I? I spent this morning fixing a time-loop in the fourteenth century, the rest of the afternoon trying to convince Cronos that he just can't bloody go around flicking his wrist and playing 'Master of Time' unless he wants to get in trouble with the Higher Ups, after which I had to deal with the honourable Lady Destiny who had a kink in her Sibyllomatic 2005.83 and was spraying bad prophecies like the Delphic Oracle, and inevitably overloading the temporal drainage system…after which I had to visit the twenty-fourth century and patch-up another infraction by that infernal Janeway woman, which caused me to miss my favourite nephew's twelfth birthday party! Do you know why he's my favourite nephew?" He thundered, not waiting for an answer. "Because he gave me this bloody shirt! The only person who's bloody bothered to ask after The Handyman." He said the last two words with a kind of ominous harmonic to it, like you would say 'Vlad- the Impaler, mwahahahahaha!'. "And I MISSED his birthday party! I have not been having a good day."  
  
"You're a handyman?"  
  
He looked at Draco like the boy was some kind of very small insect. This is extremely difficult to do if you are three feet tall, but he had obviously had a lot of practice. "Don't you listen? I'm The Handyman," he repeated his previous linguistic performance with the precision of a metronome. "How old are you, anyway?"  
  
"Almost nineteen." He replied, with meekness that surprised even him.  
  
"Still a kid. So, where you from, kid?" He immediately thought the better of his inquiry, holding up a hand. "Wait! Let me guess! I'd say…mid- eighteenth…no! Twentieth century earth! Am I right, am I, am I?" He asked with the earnestness that was the human [or Handyman, whatever the case was] equivalent of a cocker spaniel yelp coupled with that unerringly sad gaze. You never hear stories about the power of the spaniel Look, mostly because there's never anyone left to tell the tale. Seriously.  
  
"Actually, yes." Draco was more than a little surprised. "Where did you say I was, exactly?"  
  
"Oh, you're in the Temporal Hub…"  
  
Now that the Handyman mentioned it, Draco could see the room stretching in all directions. There was a vast meshwork of very worn looking pipes and tubing, along with some more recent looking additions of glass and chrome. Little grubby signs were plastered everywhere, saying cryptic things like 'Civil War Sewage System', 'Baxter's 24th C. Treatment Facility' and 'Eighteenth Century Recycling'.  
  
The Handyman followed his vision to the last signpost. "Too much bloody nonsense going on in the eighteenth century. If you don't drain it periodically the whole thing clogs up."  
  
"Where exactly is the temporal hub?"  
  
"Temporal Hub. They're In Capitals." He waved his arm disgustedly in defeat. "Oh forget it. It's just seven dimensions away from mainstream earth."  
  
"Dimensions? I thought there were just four?"  
  
"Well, you don't expect Gods and the like to share the same dimension as you, do you? And of course, some of them can't stand each other…and of course, that isn't counting the half-dimensions that bloody Vulcan keeps forging every time he feels like it. Plus the fact that them Immortals don't take well to Time…prefer to live outside the dimensions it stays in." The Handyman glanced back at the system- a small jet of steam was hissing out from one of the pipes. "Damn! Duty calls."  
  
Draco followed him, watching as he rummaged around in his pack. "What exactly is it that you do?"  
  
"Not exactly good with imagining a Multiverse, are you, kid? Think of it this way. There's an order that everything's supposed to go in- I mean, you want the First World War to end in 1918 and not in 1818, because it hadn't started then. That would create a paradox, and to put it mildly, the entire system of reality itself would implode and crush every single thing inside it to the size of three point four atoms." He said it in an offhand way of one who deals with such eventualities every day. "So, you have to have someone to get to the problems and fix them before they go Critical." The Handyman held up the ball of pink string, snipping off a generous piece with his scissors and stuffing it into the hole. For good measure, he stuck it over with a length of scotch tape. "That's where I come in."  
  
"You fix the timeline of the Universe with string and scotch tape?"  
  
The man waved the roll of it under his nose. "Hey kid, let me give you some wonderful advice. Never underestimate the power of scotch tape."  
  
"But…why haven't you fixed it all, then? I mean, if you're outside time you can just flip to any bit of it you want, and fix whatever problems there are, right?" Draco found himself actually getting the hand of this thing; and it was a little too late to stay in shock.  
  
"Almost. The thing is, kid, if you could just go to any bit of time, it would mean that time is linear, which it isn't. It isn't in a loop either. Mostly it's curly and winding and overlapping and very, very unpredictable. So, you can get bits at a time and smooth out the anomalies-," he gestured towards the pipes. "Which is what we're doing here, but you can't fix everything at once because time doesn't occur all at once. So if you fix a problem in the eighteenth century and then find some time in the fourteenth and fix an anomaly there, the eighteenth century changes and you have to go at it all over again. It's a bit of a Sisyphusean ordeal, actually."  
  
Draco nodded and tried to appear as if he understood everything. Mostly, his brain was still trying to get past the 'seven dimensions away' part.  
  
"So, anyway, what are you doing here?"  
  
"I don't quite know. I was just sitting in the conservatory one minute, and then –poof- here I was." Draco looked up at the Handyman. "You wouldn't be able to send me back home, by any chance?"  
  
"Um, actually, no…" He reached inside the pouch and retrieved a pair of scissors. "I'm really sorry about this, kid, but I'm just going to have to kill you."  
  
The boy had already started to back away. "No, no…you don't need to feel pressurised at all, Mr Handyman…"  
  
"Sorry, kid. Rules are rules. No mortals allowed in the Hub…and besides, it's just a whole lot neater this way."  
  
"For whom?" By the suddenly very nasty looking glitter of the scissors, it certainly wouldn't be neat for him.  
  
"Temporally. You have to think about the big picture… It's not that I don't like you- that's the best conversation I've had in a couple of Ice Ages, actually…" He waved the scissors about, even as he advanced. "Look, if you're nice about it, I'll make sure you get reincarnated into something nice and peaceful. How about a tree?" At the horrified expression on Draco's face, he hastened to add to his suggestion. "Movement really is overrated…and having bark is actually quite nice once you get past the itchiness…"  
  
That was the last straw. With an expression that was like a banshee's scream, only a thousand times more concentrated, Draco turned and began to run. He could hear the Handyman behind him, and paranoia made him imagine the footsteps even closer than they were. He turned a corner into Corridor 13A and stopped; in front of him was a huge wall dotted with chute-openings with brass lettering saying 'Portals 80-129'. There were individual labels above them; with tiny writing that Draco didn't have the time or the inclination to decipher.  
  
It was obvious these portals led to different times…but which ones? It was a millisecond before Draco realised that it was a question that really didn't matter now. Anywhen but now.  
  
"Come on, kid! It's really not so bad! Make it easier on all of us! I'm going to find you anyway!"  
  
Taking a deep breath, Draco sprinted all the way to the edge of the wall, and without a moment of hesitation, leapt into one of the chutes. By the time his common sense had caught up with him, it was already a little too late. Even as he fell through the pitch black, he heard the same, faraway tinkling laughter and thought exactly the same thing as before.  
  
Bugger.  
  
*  
  
"Where the hell did it come from?" A low woman's voice demanded.  
  
Another woman replied, but in a softer, more curious tone. "He's not an it. It's a he."  
  
"And he's a wizard, can't you sense the aura?" This voice was male, and somehow very smooth. Not oily, just…polished.  
  
"What is it doing here?"  
  
"He's not an it!" The previous voice had a somewhat more impatient note to it this time.  
  
A different male tone sounded, more full and vibrant than the previous one. "Well, maybe he can tell us something. I think he's waking up."  
  
"I think we should kill it!" The same low decibels again.  
  
Draco felt the pointy end of a sword prod him a couple of times, but he remained motionless. Wasn't that the general sort of thing one did when attacked? Granted, these weren't bears but-  
  
"Oh, well, that's your answer to everything, isn't it?" The other woman asked sarcastically. "What do we do? Oh, let's just kill it! He's our age…you'd think you'd be a bit more empathetic."  
  
The pale-haired boy decided that this would be a fortuitous time to show signs of consciousness. He made a low groaning sound that didn't have to be faked; a headache the size of Alaska was pounding in his head [somewhere underneath the temporally-caused headache was an alcohol-induced migraine, and they both seemed equally intent on reducing his brain to mush]. One eye opened, and then the other, to reveal four faces bending over him with varied expressions.  
  
"Hello, there," said the woman who had spoken previously, smiling down at him. She had black hair to her shoulders and clear blue eyes. Ah, now perhaps things were looking up. "Are you all right?"  
  
"I think so," he tried to get to his feet and succeeded after a few tries. "Thanks…er…I didn't get your names?"  
  
"It is nothing at all, and, I'm Lady Rowena, these two are Lords Godric and Sölvarr, and the woman over there is Helga."  
  
There was a moment where time, as it was, really did seem to stop. In all probability, it was just Draco Malfoy's heart.  
  
"Ah," he said, rather vaguely. "Pleased to meet you."  
  
*  
  
Author's Note:  
  
The idea of mottos being plays on words was shamelessly stolen from Feet of Clay by Terry Pratchett and Dragon King. Some of Mrs Ponde's characteristics have to be ascribed to Susan Sto Helit [the stare, for instance] but her physical description was of a nanny in Victorian literature. Well, a caretaker to a lunatic, to be exact…and I've dropped a hint or two. Gold stars for whoever knows whom…  
  
And more Gold stars to any Star Trek: Voyager fans that spotted the references. I couldn't resist.  
  
The whole time concept was inspired by reading Thief of Time, but very different to the book.  
  
If you don't know whom Quickdraw McGraw/El Kabong is, shame on you! Humanity would be a whole lot better if people just watched more of cartoon network.  
  
If anyone has any questions, comments, or suggestions, I would love to hear them, either in a review or by email [ m_e_graves@hotmail.com ]. I'm also online on MSN every now and then. Feel free to ambush me.  
  
  
  
This chapter/fic is over 


	3. Just Call Me Cupid

*  
  
Hogwarts, Estd. 920 AD  
  
Chapter Two: Just Call Me Cupid *  
  
It was at times like this that Draco was glad his father had given him all that practice in poker-facedness.  
  
His mind drowned, and the processing part of it took over.  
  
Fact 1: He had really gone back in time [shit- he had been hoping that was just a dream] to the 10th Century AD.  
  
Fact 2: Because of fact one, he was now looking up at the Founders.  
  
Fact 3: Due to fact 2, he was probably messing with the timeline right now.  
  
Fact 4: Fact 3 would ensure that the Handyman would hunt him, find him and kill him like a dog.  
  
Fact 5: All facts considered, he was buggered.  
  
At which point, his logic failed, and he had to rely on normal thought once more.  
  
Calm. Be calm. You've just met the Founders. There's nothing to be upset about.  
  
Sometimes, his own sarcasm annoyed him.  
  
"Who are you and what in Heimdall's name are you doing here?"  
  
Draco looked at Sölvarr [now was that Salazar? As in the Salazar Slytherin?] and decided his previous assessment had been perfect. Polished. He had thick black hair, very pale skin and the coldest grey eyes he had ever looked into [which was saying quite a bit when you yourself had a Gaze of Ice]. His features were small but strong; angular eyes, a sharp nose and almost white lips. He stood with a carefully calculated precision, and there was a languid undertone to his voice that suggested he could slice you into wizard fillet with just his words if he wanted to, it was simply that he didn't choose to do so at the moment. That slight smile was more than a little unnerving.  
  
"I'm not very sure." He began cautiously. "I think I hit my head quite hard.sir."  
  
"Why are you dressed so strangely?" That was the other man, lighter haired, with brown eyes and a square, strong face. It was the visage of heroes everywhere and everywhen.  
  
That prompted him to study the clothing of his 'saviours'. Both women were wearing wool gowns in bright colours, embroidered at the hems, underneath fur-trimmed cloaks. From the jewelled brooches clasping the cloth together at various points, he guessed that they were either filthy rich or doing an excellent impression of being so. The men, too, were dressed in embroidered calf-length tunics; the fair-haired one had on a pointed, jester-ish hat. [The bloody Sorting Hat!]  
  
Godric looked thoughtfully at the Gucci silk shirt and black trousers. "Are you new to these lands, perhaps?"  
  
Making an effort not to bite his lip with consternation, Draco tried to remember those History of Magic classes about the Founders Era. If only that damn Professor Binns had been a little more interesting.if only Draco had been more awake than an abysmally bored cabbage. "Indeed, I am.my name is Draco. Draco de Malfoyé."  
  
"Oh, of course," Draco was devoutly thankful of the flash of recognition in Godric's eyes. "But you live quite far from here, monsieur, what business have you in these lands? And where is your conveyance?"  
  
"Lord Godric, the last memory I have was of travelling with several others; my father wished to extend a hand of friendship to his neighbours and despatched me to meet with you," Draco congratulated himself for the greatest work of fiction since vows of fidelity were included in the French marriage service. "Our party met with brigands and, seeing our number was less that theirs, we chose the sensible course and tried to escape." Okay, Draco, think helpless animal.[the word 'ferret' kept popping into his mind but he pushed it down vehemently] think sad, pathetic, and above all, innocent, little animal. "I do not know how long I have ridden or how far.all I remember was being very, very tired.and then, you woke me."  
  
Sölvarr's smile widened slightly and he glanced at Godric. "Sensible.but Lord Godric," there was the same note of mocking in his tone as there had been in Mrs Ponde's. "Would disagree. He would have stood and fought."  
  
"There's nothing wrong with that." Came the strong, brassy reply, not from Godric but Helga.  
  
Draco turned around to look at Helga Hufflepuff properly, expecting a short, dumpy woman with more than a passing resemblance to Molly Weasley. Boy, was he wrong.  
  
It was love at first sight.  
  
From the tips of her carrot-red hair to the ends of her bony toes, Draco Malfoy totally, completely and beyond redemption fell for the woman who had suggested killing him three minutes ago. The fact that she didn't even look at him [or if she did, it was the sort of look you gave something nasty on the sole of your shoe] didn't particularly matter to him.  
  
"I didn't say there was," Sölvarr turned around and hissed, his eyes narrowing. A lesser woman would have crumbled, but Helga stood her ground. "Your opinion isn't required right now."  
  
Rowena rolled her eyes and concentrated on Draco with a smile. There was a look in her eyes that made him a little uncomfortable. "Lord Draco, Gryffindor manor is quite nearby, and Godric won't mind if you stay with us."  
  
"You all live together?"  
  
"Ah, not always-," her negation was interrupted by a soft 'Thank God for that' from Godric's direction. "The Gryffindor family foster the three of us for a few months a year.they're famous for teaching, I am sure you know."  
  
"Oh, of course, who doesn't?" He replied, with more than a little sarcasm. It was, however, lost on Rowena and Godric. They, like their future house members, had not quite mastered the art of tonal inference.  
  
Godric cleared his throat, but Sölvarr and Helga showed no signs of abating. Sölvarr spoke very softly, and Helga seemed to have no compunctions about yelling, on the whole it was an extremely odd thing to hear. Like a zookeeper talking to a deranged giraffe [Helga did look somewhat like a giraffe, albeit a very attractive one].Draco was quite sure given a few more minutes the argument would descend into a fistfight. "Stop it!" Godric yelled finally. "What kind of impression are you giving Lord Draco?"  
  
The suddenness with which Sölvarr stopped and turned was startling, and even Helga managed to look a little ashamed. He smiled at Godric and raised one eyebrow. "Indeed.what kind of impression are we giving him.?" Without waiting for a reply, he took Helga's arm and began walking in the direction Rowena had indicated. After a slight hesitation, the redhead had fallen into step beside him.  
  
Draco turned to Rowena to ask something, but her attention was definitely elsewhere. She was biting her lip and watching Sölvarr and Helga walk away hand-in hand with a very odd expression; and Godric was watching her with an even odder one. The tension was so thick you couldn't have cut it with a knife [tension that you could cut with a knife had the consistency of melted butter, this tension was more like his mother's failed baking experiment. They had used the fruitcake to pave the driveway]. As if snapping out of some kind of dream, Rowena turned back to him and grinned very unconvincingly. It was the kind of over concentrated smile that suggested the person making the expression would quite happily kill anyone in her path.  
  
"Come on, then, Lord Draco." She said, starting to trudge in the same direction. "I'm sure Aelryth would have set out a great supper by now.I'm starving."  
  
Draco couldn't have agreed with her more, apparently one of the less documented side effects of time travel was that it made you feel as hungry as a lion [the ampleness of feline hunger, of course, being documented from first hand experience being it's focus].but from the way Rowena was looking at Helga around Sölvarr [bloody Salazar Slytherin!] she would gladly drink the woman's blood.  
  
*  
  
The Handyman pushed the rim of his cap back and scratched his head slowly. "The bloody kid jumped through a portal! This is a problem. Oh, hell, this is the mother of problems. This is- huh?!"  
  
He inspected the area a little more carefully, looking up and scrutinising the sign.yes, it all looked in order.but there was something wrong.  
  
With a flourish, he unrolled a map that was hanging from his waist and traced a pathway with his finger, coming slowly to the Corridor 13A. A little bubble above it said 'Sewage System B01', not, as would have been expected 'Portals 80-129'. Which could only mean someone had been rearranging the Hub to make sure the kid jumped through a portal.  
  
The Handyman almost snarled- someone else buggering about with his hub and his timeline!? There was only one logical explanation for it.and that logical explanation was going to get it's non-corporeal ass kicked.  
  
With the determination of a brick wall [yes; brick walls are damn determined. Have you ever tried playing chicken with one?] he stalked over to a console and took out his wand. 'Fourth Dimension', he muttered, as a jet of blue light shot out of it and split the floor. A small platform levitated a few inches above ground level and the handyman stepped onto it. "Go," he snapped, and with a pneumatic hiss and some very interesting smoke effects, it went.  
  
*  
  
Draco awoke in the darkness of an unlit room, his arms cool and bare but the rest of his body snug underneath the warm blankets. He lay there, motionless, a recollection of the previous day's events filtering through his brain. The last thing he remembered was sitting on a sofa waiting for his room to be made ready. Draco almost laughed- what was he on? The last time he'd had a dream like that was when he had inhaled some magically altered marijuana. Of course, in that dream he'd been a circus performer with an act called 'The Amazing Malfoy and His Pet Stick'-  
  
There was a flash of light, and then the coarse, friction-infused sound of candles being lit.  
  
Sölvarr [Salazar! Bloody Salazar Slytherin!] stood not two feet from his bed, the light darkening his eyes into pools of blackness. If it had been a Muggle horror movie, this would have been the time when he would have taken out a gleaming knife and grinned maniacally, advancing inexorably toward him. But, it wasn't; and instead he simply smiled. That is to say, his facial muscles contracted and pulled the corners of his lips upward. Smiled was much too warm a word for the expression.  
  
So it hadn't been a dream, after all. In a twisted way, Draco was glad. At least he knew his imagination wasn't that buggered up.  
  
"Hello there, Lord Draco.I trust you slept well?"  
  
Draco began to nod, but then the object in Sölvarr's hand caught his attention. It was a chrome and plastic cigarette lighter from the pocket of his shirt, which lay in a tangled heap on the floor. He made a mental note to pick it up and smooth out the wrinkles; being caught in another time didn't justify looking like a washerwoman [or worse, Scarface Potter]. "I.slept fine."  
  
It was obvious that Draco had noticed Sölvarr going through his things. At least the man could have had the decency to look abashed about it. Immediately after that thought, the voice in his head reminded him that this was the Prince of Supreme and Utter Darkness.And that very same Lord of Eternal Evilness was looking at Draco like he could read minds.  
  
"You don't have to be afraid, you know," Sölvarr said, in a tone of voice that implied 'be afraid, be very afraid' complete with the Jaws music.  
  
"Oh, I'm not afraid." Draco made a borderline pathetic attempt to inject a little levity into his words. He might as well have tried to tame a werewolf with the words 'Little doggy wanna bikkit?'.  
  
"Mr Malfoyé," he began, with a little sigh. "You're looking at me like I'm the CEO of Evil Incorporated." He gave Draco a few moments to let his words sink in; only speaking once the desired expression of surprise had plastered itself all over Draco's face. "That's right. You didn't think I'd waste half my life in this hellhole of a time, did you?"  
  
Draco found himself, for one of the rare occasions in his life, utterly speechless. "That means- which means you know- about- about the future." He spluttered with the syntactical coherence of a three-year-old.  
  
"Actually no. I've had to use spells to keep myself from gaining any knowledge about the future me because that causes.shall we say.problems with the timeline.most of which would end in me exploding and dispersing throughout the known universe in six-millimetre blobs. Though I do know quite a bit about everything else, especially the-" he almost shuddered. "Muggle world.but let's just keep that between ourselves, shall we?"  
  
"Of course, Lord Slytherin," Draco decided he had better start showing a little more respect, since Sölvarr was going to turn into Slytherin any day.and this Malfoy did not want to get on the Founder's bad side.  
  
"Oh," he looked surprised, the widened eyes a drastic change from the otherwise set expression. "So I am known as Salazar Slytherin?"  
  
"Yes.actually, I didn't know you had another name."  
  
"My birth name is Sölvarr Sturluson.that's Salazar Slytherin in Parseltongue, the language is rather sibilant-heavy. I don't believe snakes can quite manage a 'v'. I tried teaching them, but, alas, to no avail-"  
  
The thought of a group of snakes having daily lessons in diction caused a slight smile to rise to Draco's lips, which he hurriedly hid with his hand.  
  
"Anyway, it would just be a lot better if you just called me Sölvarr," the man grinned suddenly- a menacing sort of grin, as grins went, but still firmly classified in the 'safe' category. "It's so weird when you call me Lord Slytherin!"  
  
With a slight smile, Draco suddenly understood that the Founders weren't Founders yet. They were his age.in fact; they looked a little younger than him. He could easily make friends with them [with the Founders!.did 'friends in high places' ring a bell?] They probably didn't even count him as inferior to them [with the possible exception of Helga].  
  
An annoying voice cut through the rose-and-watermelon daydreams, reminding him that it would probably mess up the timeline.though, Slytherin, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Malfoy had a certain ring to it.  
  
"Okay, Sölvarr."  
  
"I think you should tell the others that you're from the future, Draco. Not," he added hastily. "Because it's the right thing to do or any drivel like that, but mostly because the Malfoyés are visiting us at the end of this month.and while you have a striking physical resemblance to the line, your innovative little tale will be cut to shreds."  
  
"Thanks.I will, when we're all together, I suppose." Draco shivered slightly, very aware that it was quite cold. Struck by a sudden suspicion, he delicately picked up the covers and looked down. His suspicions were concerned. He was quite competely naked. A slight flush rose to his cheeks- being daring was all well and good, but chatting with Salazar Slytherin au naturel wasn't on his list of Top Ten Things to Do when Temporally Dislocated [come to think of it being actually Temporally Dislocated wasn't on his list, either]. "I appear to be missing my clothes."  
  
Sölvarr winked with a bit of a smile. "Ah, that was Rowena's idea after you fell asleep on the chair outside. Not quite sure about the reasoning behind it, but she was quite adamant." He turned and picked up a tunic and leggings that had been lying on the desk, tossing them to Draco in a smooth motion. "I think she has a crush on you."  
  
"Really?" Despite himself, Draco felt flattered. "I'm not really interested in her."  
  
"She's considered very pretty."  
  
An image of Rowena's perfectly oval face, with her bluish eyes and straight black hair, crept into his mind. Very pretty, but in that perfect, doll- like way that seemed to preclude an interesting character behind the wide- eyed gaze. "I'm not really into her type, actually."  
  
For a brief moment, Sölvarr's features darkened into an expression of pure dislike; Draco could almost see the Slytherin of the future. It quickly dissolved into mild sheepishness. "Ah, you mean Helga, don't you?"  
  
"Yes, of course," Draco said, offhand. "They've got her all wrong in the future. I mean, she's supposed to be this molasses-sweet, plump, cheerful girl."  
  
"Helga's the sweet one?" The wizard burst into laughter; cold and loud, like the discordant clinking of badly fashioned bells. "And plump? Now there's something you don't hear said every day."  
  
"I can imagine. So, what's her story?"  
  
"Helga and I have Nordic ancestry- though I was born in England and she was born back in Scandinavia. I wanted to continue my education, so my father sent me to the Gryffindors.and of course, I had to bring her along." He raised one eyebrow in dislike.  
  
"Oh, you knew each other, then?"  
  
Sölvarr fixed Draco with his eye and shook his head. "Not at all. We were just married."  
  
"You're married to her?"  
  
"Oh yes." He dismissed Draco's incredulity with a wave. "it was a family ordeal. Hers is considered in quite high standing back home. You keep forgetting we're in the bloody dark ages, my dear Draco."  
  
"Married."  
  
He sighed. "Really, it doesn't mean anything." Sölvarr grinned, a little lewdly. "She'll be more difficult to impress than Rowena. Not easily swayed, is our Helga."  
  
Draco was wondering whether he was suffering from a severe case of delusion. He wished a talking hippo or one of the muppets would walk through the door so that he could just lie back down on the bed and curl up into a whimpering ball of crazy. "You're married to her.and you wouldn't mind if I made a move on her?"  
  
"It's more a legal marriage than an actual one. I despise the woman. And besides, I'm interested in someone else." He hesitated for a moment, looking closely at Draco.  
  
It reminded the boy of the kind of look you gave a three-day old slice of cake in the fridge [in other words, the should-I-shouldn't-I look].  
  
Apparently, Sölvarr decided he should. The wizard sighed rather voluminously; as if it was some shameful thing he was about to impart. "I don't know why I'm telling you this- but- I have a rather gaping flaw when it comes to my taste in partners. I am, by some unfathomable cosmic joke, hopelessly in love with Godric Gryffindor."  
  
The wizard from the future just gaped.  
  
"Oh, don't look at me like that, Draco!" He made an expression between annoyance and helplessness. "You're in love with Helga, whom you've seen for ten minutes at best. And five of those ten minutes she was trying to get us to stick a sword in that chest of yours. You can't help who you fall in love with," he took a deep breath, and then sat down on the edge of the bed. "But I know it's rather pathetic."  
  
"With Gryffindor!" Draco managed to squeak.  
  
"I know, I know- I shudder to think that I share this particular trait with about 90% of the double-digit IQ female population.I believe you have a word for it in your time. What is it?.ah, yes.fangirl."  
  
It was an effort not to burst into laughter. Hercules would have been proud of that effort. Draco kept having flashes of Slytherin at some kind of concert, screaming and holding out a pad for an autograph and jumping up and down. That was not an image conducive to seriousness. "But, if you're in love with Gryffindor.why aren't you two together? I mean." He trailed off. The end of his sentence was obvious: Godric couldn't be that hard to get. Especially if you're a Slytherin [or the Slytherin, it worked both ways].  
  
"You know The Song? Oh come on, the Weird Sisters, about the various.shall we say.attributes of a hedgehog?"  
  
Draco knew the one. Everyone knew that song.  
  
"Well," he said, utterly miserable. "The chorus might as well be 'Godric Can Never Be Buggered at All'." The intense look of embarrassment and despair on the Founder's face tugged at some forgotten pity in Draco.  
  
More than that, it tugged on his very well remembered opportunity- detectors. Playing 10th Century cupid to the Slyth-man could be the clincher. "That bad, huh?" Draco nodded in what he hoped was a sympathetic manner. In actuality, it had all the sympathy of a circling vulture. "What have you tried so far?"  
  
"I tried so many things to make him take notice, and then I decided it would be a lot simpler just to make his life miserable." It was a perfectly logical sentiment, to Draco at least. "He's always making puppy-eyes at Rowena, so I decided I'd make him a little jealous, if you know what I mean. He's tried giving us lectures. Lectures! You sleep with the woman a man loves and you expect something more! I've made so many plans- they've never failed me before but Godric is impervious to all of them!"  
  
"He can't be infallible. We'll find something." Draco reached out hesitantly and patted Sölvarr on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it."  
  
With a little shake of his head, the Founder stood up and cleared his throat. Within seconds, his cool, imperturbable face slipped back on. "Right.", even through the semi-darkness, Draco could see the genuine grin on his lips. "Thankyou, Draco. I think you and I are going to be.great friends."  
  
With that, he walked out, leaving Draco completely awed and very, very pleased. It looked like Malfoy might end up on the honour roll of Founders after all; despite the inevitable issues this might create with the very fabric of reality itself [he paused here for a moment to wonder how exactly reality had bowels if it was made of fabric].  
  
Ah, but back to the point: his thoughts on the well being of the Universe could be summed up in three and a half words. I. don't. -ing. care.  
  
Unfortunately, he was going to have to rethink that strategy very soon.  
  
*  
  
"Cronos! Cronos you barmy old codger!" The Handyman blasted the red-and- white door open with far more force than was necessary. "Where in the seven dimensions are you? Come out right now or I'll flush you down a spatial drain like the temporal hairball that you are-,"  
  
His flow [which was more like river rapids thundering over a waterfall that a gentle 'flow'] was interrupted by the appearance of a rather mild looking man dressed in a white jumper and clutching a cup of tea.  
  
"Er, yes? Oh, Consuela.there you are, now, I've been looking for my glasses all evening-," the man stopped rather abruptly and peered at the Handyman very myopically. "You're looking a little.tired.today, my dear girl, perhaps you should get some rest?"  
  
"I'm. Not. Consuela. You dim-witted old fool!" Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, the self-preservation instinct was telling him it wasn't such a good idea to go around yelling at Gods, but right now, anger was treading very firmly on self-preservation's face. "You've been mucking about with my Temporal Hub again! Don't deny it! -,"  
  
"Now, now, old chap, no need to get all upset. I just let darling May and her little friends have a go at the Dimension Rearranger for a bit. You know how the young are, dear boy, just raring to have a go at daddy's doohickeys," he said this with the vague pride and intermingled fear that parents with beastly children quite often display. Some parents have rose tinted spectacles; Cronos had a greenhouse growing on his nose. "Very keen. Got the proper spirit of the thing, you know."  
  
The Handyman calmed himself with a visible effort. "You let your daughter, who, might I say, is the under Goddess of Mayhem use your Rearranger?-" The rebuke had absolutely no effect on the God. "Oh, alright, now- who exactly are her friends?"  
  
"Chasey, Mischelle, Venadora, Mallory." Cronos ticked them off in his head, his face scrunching up as he tried to remember the last once. "Oh.and Lusille."  
  
It took a few moments before the Handyman remembered that taking human names was the new fashion among the rebellious youngsters now. He'd seen an article about it in The Celestial Chronicler a while ago, when the Crusade against Anti Divine Activity released their manifesto and were quoted as saying, "it's the job of every God to make sure good things happen to good people and anything else is Anti Divine! We're prepared to take bold steps to show the rest of the Universe the error of their- arrgh!- arrgh! you bloody bastard wait till I get you!" at which point the speaker hopped off the podium and ran after a very quick member of the audience [who happened to be trailing very rotten tomatoes]  
  
"Ah, of course, of course, Mayhem would hang around with Chaos, Mischief, Vengeance, Malice and Lust." There was a sudden coldness to the Handyman, giving one the feeling that if he were to show his anger, the result would be worse than a very large atomic bomb exploding inside one's cranium. "Do you, you senile twat, have any idea what they were planning?"  
  
"Well, they were rather upset and kept going on about how it was unfair that the rest of mythology labelled them.teenagers, you know? Going through a bit of an identity crisis.had one myself," he chuckled to himself, and seemed on the point of relating a story about his youth. One look at the Handyman changed that. "Er, well, they said they wanted to do some good for the humans. Punish the bad, and so on."  
  
"But she's Mayhem! She doesn't do good!"  
  
The old man reached up and scratched his stubble thoughtfully. "Well now, I reckon that's the sort of thing she was upset about. Mayhem has to cause mayhem and all that sort of thing."  
  
"But she will cause it! She has! She always has been! It's her basic nature, you can't change that."  
  
"Yes, well, she was so very enthusiastic."  
  
"How could you let her mess around with Time and Space?! It could be dangerous!"  
  
A sudden flash of cognisance presented itself in Cronos watery blue eyes. "Dangerous? My poor little May's defenceless, she's a rabbit, really, on the inside, once you get past the leather and chainmail."  
  
"I'm sure she bloody is. Now," the Handyman decided to Take Action, seizing Cronos hand and dragging him along. "You're coming with me and we are going to find your trigger-happy girl. After which we're going to get that twentieth-century prat out of the past."  
  
""Do I get to be Master of Time?"  
  
The Handyman glared at Cronos for a few moments before sighing deeply. Sometimes, he wondered whether it was all worth it.  
  
"Oh, all right." He muttered.  
  
*  
  
There was a rap on the door, soft and gentle. It was the sort of rap that apologised for itself and told you that the person rapping was wishing very hard to be somewhere else. Possibly somewhere quieter, nicer, where people said 'please' and 'thankyou' far too much. And that the person was probably rather sentimental about things like raindrops and roses and whiskers on kittens.  
  
Draco, who had been checking his appearance in the magically conjured mirror, quickly ended his spell. The tunic and associated fancy bits [of the vaguely useless kind only nobility could afford] looked quite good on him, even if he did say so himself. He cleared his throat and straightened up; preparing to act every bit the Lord to whichever unfortunate soul was on the other side of the door. With what he believed was regal poise, he flung open the portal, and immediately stopped dead, his mouth hanging open in a vague but accurate imitation of the South Asiatic Guppy fish.  
  
"Mrs Ponde?"  
  
*  
  
Author's Note:  
  
Ah, lots of varied stuff to credit in this chapter!  
  
One direct Blackadder quote [from Captain Cook in the 'Blackadder Goes Forth' series]- which was "the greatest work of fiction since vows of fidelity were included in the French marriage service" part.  
  
The 'it was love at first sight' [I just had to add that oneliner in!] is the first line of Catch-22 [by Joseph Heller] the greatest novel ever.possibly barring 1984.  
  
The Crusade's taking human names was inspired from the way the vampires took 'normal' names in rebellion of the older ones in Carpe Jugulum by Terry Pratchett, but their reasoning is very different. The bit about sentimentality about raindrops and roses and whiskers on kittens [from the Sound of Music, if anyone hadn't figured] is from the Author's Note of Lords and Ladies also by the amazing Pterry. The Hedgehog Song is Nanny Ogg's invention, and she's a Wyrd Sister, so I guess liberties can be taken! Find the song on L-Space Web [ http://www.co.uk.lspace.org/fandom/songs/hedgehog-song.html ]  
  
The information on clothes in the era was found on a website dedicated to 'The Circle of Ceridwen' a novel set in the 10th C. by Octavia Randolph. It was confirmed by the information on the Hurstwic Historical Recreation Society's webpage [ http://www.hurstwic.org ]  
  
I've probably forgotten some other sources.  
  
But now, the real stars of the show- my reviewers! Worship them, worship them, for they have gone where noone else dared [or cared *sniffle sniffle*] Leave a review!  
  
Honeyduke: Hope I managed to preserve the flavour of originality in both plot and characterisation.  
  
Swirlyhead: Ah, Draco's characterisation.I haven't developed him very much yet, but I'd love your opinion of it so far.  
  
Ennia: An offer to BETA and a fellow Trekkie! [Though I only watch Voyager] But thanks for the review!  
  
And one Unregistered who was really sweet!  
  
If you want to be notified the next time a chapter is up, just send a mail to m_e_graves@hotmail.com ! 


	4. Just The Beginning Of a Very Strange Day

*  
  
Hogwarts, Estd. 920 AD  
  
Chapter Three: Just The Beginning of A Very Strange Day *  
  
Draco slowly reached for his right arm and pinched himself.  
  
No. He was not asleep.  
  
He brought his hand up to just in front of his face and quickly checked his breath.  
  
No. He was not drunk out of his mind.  
  
He, very slowly, looked at his surroundings.  
  
Yes. He was in the 10th Century BC. And yes, these were Solvarr's [Salazar Slytherin!] clothes against his skin. He was still the only being in the Multiverse being actively hunted by The Handyman. So far so good. No signs of the inherited Malfoy madness creeping up on him. Taking a breath to steady himself, he grudgingly turned back to the creature outside his door. Draco Malfoy sighed with relief.  
  
On closer inspection, the girl standing at his doorstep did not have the presence of Mrs Ponde. She was very young, barely fifteen or sixteen, with an overly skinny frame, pale skin, wide blue eyes that looked straight out of a Japanese animé series and a small pink mouth. She resembled Mrs Ponde somewhat superficially, but it was her manner that completely shattered this perception- the word 'doormat' was plastered in weak writing all over her face. If anyone ever had the temerity [and the suicidal death wish] to call Mrs Ponde a doormat, she'd be more likely the one on the steps of Malfoy Manor which had a wonderfully fortunate tendency to swallow up Ministry representatives and digest them very slowly.  
  
"You're not Mrs Ponde!" He crowed, the childish joy evident in his tone followed by a sudden flush of embarrassment. He was acting like a Muggleborn doing Wingardium Leviosa for the first time. This realisation prompted a quick clenching of the jaw and a crossing of the arms. If pressured, he would deny everything.  
  
Not-Mrs-Ponde, on the other hand, looked thoroughly confused. In fact, she looked petrified [in the Muggle sense, not the Magical, Draco was not at his wizardly best in the mornings- Petrifying someone was a post-11 am spell if he ever saw one]. "Lord.?"  
  
"Nothing, do you hear? Absolutely nothing. Nothing to see. Nothing I did. Nothing," he stopped himself, vaguely aware that he was overdoing it a bit. "What's your name, maid?" For the tone of voice, Draco might as well have said 'abject slave'. Despite that, there was just something mildly intriguing about the girl. Something far too- familiar- for his liking.  
  
"My name, sir?" She looked utterly flabbergasted, something which, Draco mused idly, she probably was often.  
  
"You do have a name, don't you?"  
  
She replied with a breathless sort of terror. "Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir. It's A-,"  
  
"Draco, dear Lord Draco, you're all better," Rowena Ravenclaw appeared at that most opportune moment, causing the servant girl who wasn't Mrs Ponde to disappear. Draco was just surprised she didn't leave a puff of smoke, or a few dew drops of condensation to indicate she was a mist-being.  
  
He turned to survey the unquestionably lovely face [and other bits] of the Founder, finding himself mildly puzzled. She was looking, if possible, even.bustier.than usual [apparently the law of the centre of gravity hadn't been discovered in the 10th Century, otherwise, Rowena's upright position would be seriously fracturing the legs of physics with the efficiency of a mob loanshark to a deadbeat], and her eyes even wider and bluer and emptier. There was a pale rosy flush on her cheeks and a hidden smile on her lips, and as she came closer she giggled. Draco took a sudden suspicious sniff of the air. Underneath her cheerful floral scent there was the very distinct odour of-  
  
Vodka.  
  
Rowena Ravenclaw was sozzled.  
  
"You look so cute in Solvarr's clothes," she cooed, in a tone of voice quite far removed from the sensibility of the night before. In fact, with the alcohol and dove-like noises, Rowena was fast coming to resemble Narcissa Malfoy, a thought which caused him to extricate his arm from her grip and jump away inelegantly.  
  
"Ah!" He tried to cover up his yell of fear by making it triumphant. "Aaah! I've, er, found it. Eureka!" He resisted the urge to just stab himself in the chest right then and there.  
  
"What have you found? Something interesting, I do hope? Nobody ever does interesting things around here."  
  
Had Draco been possessed of any precognitive abilities whatsoever, he would have immediately grasped the import of her statement. Unfortunately, when it came to peering through the mists of the future, he was about as adept as, well, to put it bluntly, Hermione Granger.  
  
In hindsight, he would mark this moment as the beginning of the longest and strangest day in his life. And that was including the day he jumped back in time and met the Founders.  
  
*  
  
It is said that the Gods play games with the lives of men.  
  
Unfortunately, none of the Gods seem to know exactly which game they're involved in. After the entire Big Bang debacle, Prudence had confiscated the Exploding Snap decks and so done away with the only game that amused all the Gods. A few were sticking to the traditional chess idea, but many more, terrified by the concept of Deep Blue, opted for more innovative methods. Monopoly was always a favourite, and it was quite obvious that a few were playing Snakes and Ladders. Some of the more irony-friendly Gods even played Life. Then there was always the huddled bunch in the back trying their hand at Strip Poker.  
  
However, right at this moment, the Handyman was quite sure that the Gods were all playing Silly Buggers.  
  
Literally.  
  
"So, where is the precious gem of a demigod?"  
  
Cronos squeezed his eyes shut, fingers brushing his temples as his features twisted into a look of deep and absolute concentration. A few minutes passed this way. Finally the Handyman tired of tapping his foot and making impatient coughing noises, since they had no effect [Gods were notoriously tardy]. Instead, he reached out and shoved him.  
  
Perhaps not the best course of action with a being capable of tearing you atom from atom, but the Handyman was past caring.  
  
"Oi!"  
  
The Handyman crossed his arms and glared at him. "Well?" He waved his arms impatiently. "Where's your precious little daughter?"  
  
"I'm not her mother, dear boy, how am I supposed to know?" Cronos inquired mildly, wincing at the sudden remembrance of May's mother, the venerable Lady Chaos. The divorce settlement had been heartbreaking.  
  
"Weren't you just trying to find- oh, forget it!" The troll-sized creature threw up his hands in exasperation, seriously considering throwing the 'Master of Time' in the Temporal Drainage System. "Look, listen to me, you scurvy cur," [indeed, it was quite the fashion to read Shakespeare in the Hub- quite a lot of First Dimension culture seeped into the others, privately the Handyman thought it was because of the inertia of stupidity- once a stupid thing is started, it goes on forever] "We need to find your daughter and her happy bunch of do-gooders before they cause a catastrophe. Do you understand? Cat. As. Tro. Phee! Catastrophe!"  
  
Cronos, by that time, was wearing a very silly grin, which faded as he caught the Handyman's expression. "Er, sorry there, old chap, you just- um- well, you sounded a bit like Cassandra for a moment there. Prophecies of doom and all that. But, er, as for where May is, I don't know.recently she's been hanging around the First Dimension. Perhaps we could look there?"  
  
"The first idea you've ever had. Cronos, my dear God, please congratulate yourself," having failed to perceive the sarcasm in the Handyman's tone, the God proceeded to do just that. Smacking himself between the eyes, he seized Cronos' arm, interrupting a stream of 'oh jolly wonderful', 'capital show, old chap' and 'good egg' to disappear into the First Dimension with a pop.  
  
Barbaric place. Didn't even have pneumatic platform access.  
  
*  
  
Meanwhile, in the 20th Century, Cornelius Fudge tapped his cane against the fertile Scottish ground, wincing slightly when the polished gold tip sunk in. He extracted it carefully, looking up for long enough to motion to his companion and hand over the dripping object to him. "Do clean this up, will you, Weatherby?"  
  
Percival Weasley, Assistant Minister of Magic, considered arguing with the Minister. Experience of eight years in the British Ministry made him decide not to. He carefully placed the Wizard Radio that Fudge made him carry at all times [his reasons had something to do with 'being informed if the blackguard You-Know-Who ever takes over while we're out on a trip, Weatherby. Dead? Hah! I thought he was dead the last time, they're not going to catch me out now!'] on the ground. He retrieved a pristine and pressed [thanks to dear Penny] handkerchief in his top pocket and began applying himself to what would most assuredly be the most challenging and vital task of his day.  
  
"So, Dumbledore, have you figured out the reason why Hogwarts is twisting like a Basilisk in a roomful of roosters yet?"  
  
The Headmaster of the school looked up from his careful inspection, taking his eyes off the flagstones long enough for a stray turret to whip down and smack him on the head. After stepping nimbly away and rubbing the bump slowly appearing on his otherwise perfectly round head, he nodded towards the Minister of Magic. "Temporal shift. The castle's a bit annoyed."  
  
"Temporal shift?" Cornelius Fudge gasped.  
  
"The castle's annoyed?" Percy Weasley exclaimed.  
  
On the radio, the Weird Sisters screeched.  
  
Albus Dumbledore handed them [Cornelius and Percy. While Dumbledore was a gifted wizard, transferring candies through radios were beyond even his quite able abilities] a lemon sherbet and laughed. "To put it shortly, gentlemen, someone's mucking about with time and Hogwarts castle isn't exactly pleased. Neither would I be, if someone went around rearranging my insides without so much as a by-your-leave, but then, people can be so inconsiderate," his blue eyes twinkled as he beheld the confusion of the Ministry men. "Let's just say that Hogwarts castle.picked up a few quirks over the centuries. It's in a bit of a state, you see, temporal shift is probably causing all sorts of changes in the structure.and she's a bit shy about letting people see her when she's not ready."  
  
"I used to have a wife like that," Cornelius, much more at ease with the concept of the ridiculous that was so integral to the wizarding world, commented. "But isn't the castle always moving around and things?" He called up fond [fond was a bit too strong of a word, it was more like 'distant', or 'horribly unpleasant'. Cornelius Fudge had been a podgy, stuttering Slytherin from a line of pure Hufflepuffs, and first year Slytherins were not exactly known for their convivial spirit] memories of Hogwarts.  
  
"Absolutely!" Dumbledore exclaimed happily, watching the writhing stone castle with something very akin to paternal pride. "It's in a constant state of mild temporal flux, nobody really knows why. Wizards have been trying to find the answer for generations. The intensity just seems to have increased. It's fascinating."  
  
Percy Weasley's face had blanched of all colour. "You mean we're sending our wizard children into- into- some sort of unsafe shifting whirlpool of time where they could be sucked up and lost to us forever in the blink of an eye?"  
  
"No, no, they're not being sent to Hell, Weatherby. What an idea!"  
  
The Under Minister looked at his superior for a moment, sighing. "Time, Minister. Time. Not lime."  
  
"Oh, right, of course,' he blustered very faintly. "Knew it all the time."  
  
Dumbledore interrupted with the answer to Percy's question. "Actually, yes, Mr Weasley. But I wouldn't worry too much. Time doesn't really like wizards all that much. Why else would you use a Time-Turner instead of just asking nicely?"  
  
He decided not to even try to frame an appropriate response.  
  
"Bloody wiggins, Dumbledore, but your castle's an odd duck," the Minister guffawed, leaning back slightly on the cane that Percy had just handed back to him and once more sinking it into the mud. "Designed from a nightmare, I should think."  
  
"A nightmare," the ageing wizard smiled the smile of a man who knows far more than any other person within a five mile radius. Dumbledore had cause to smile in that manner often. "Yes. Or a very bad memory, perhaps. Perhaps," he watched as the Infirmary wing detached itself from the castle and began a very loud and violent duel with the whomping willow. "For the moment, I do believe a bit of distance is in order."  
  
"Ah, but, what are we going to do about- well, this?" Percy inquired faintly, falling back on his books and laws. At least those didn't suddenly come to life and try and do battle with trees [except of course, for the Monster Book of Monsters. Accidental Magic Reversal Squad had spent three months trying to pick out bits of book-teeth from the Dark Forest] "Codicil three point seven of the unified code for Ministry involvement in issues of temporal gravity states that when confronted with such a situation a full report must immediately be made, after which investigations leading to arrests must follow."  
  
"What are you going to do, Under Minister, arrest Time?" Dumbledore inquired, raising one white eyebrow.  
  
"Well, what shall we do instead?"  
  
Dumbledore leaned back on one of the non-Whomping trees in the Hogwarts gardens and smiled patiently. "I do believe that waiting is our best option."  
  
And, in the interests of maintaining the always-right nature of his character, the universe bent over backwards [a feat quite astoundingly gymnastic, especially because direction has no meaning to the universe] and proved him so. Exactly five minutes later there was a loud pop, followed by the appearance of a very short man in overalls hanging on to a somewhat taller person still clutching a very cold cup of tea.  
  
*  
  
The Revelation had been quick, painless and quite disappointing.  
  
Draco Malfoy had walked to the centre of the room, raised the glass of wine that they had so generously provided him with and announced. "I am from The Future," with as much dramatic undertone as he could manage and all he received were a few general nods and 'oh, right's and 'the future, that explains it'. He was starting to think that the Handyman was right. Humans really were self-absorbed.  
  
"I'm from the Future, do you hear?"  
  
"Perfectly, Draco," Godric was actually the only one showing any signs of interest. "Why are you here? To warn us of some impending disaster? To stop an evil Dark Lord from taking over the world? Come, tell us for what reason you've braved the hardships of time? What manly quest are you undertaking?"  
  
The ex-Death Eater coughed and glanced in Helga's direction. She was filing her nails on what appeared to be a carving knife. Charming. Rowena, on the other hand, looked so utterly spaced out that Draco wouldn't have been surprised if she had remained indifferent to an announcement that her mother was a rabid platypus at London Zoo. "No quest really," he explained apologetically- suddenly stopping and catching himself. Why was he apologising for not having some unselfish greater aim? He shuddered. Godric's selflessness was rubbing off on him. "I just- sort of- got tossed back in time by something and now the crazed technician of the Temporal Universe is trying to hunt me down and kill me."  
  
That produced a response. "Hunting?" Helga's brown eyes suddenly sparked alive. "Did you hear that, Godric, hunting!"  
  
Draco backed away somewhat. "We're talking about hunting me. I don't take very kindly to being hunted."  
  
"Quite right, Helga," Godric admonished her kindly, sparing a smile for Draco. "He's been through enough already. How harrowing it must have been. Though there is one thing I'm somewhat worried about-,"  
  
"The fact that a supernatural being is probably going to rip right through those doors and come chasing after Lord Draco?" Solvarr inserted dryly.  
  
The Gryffindor shook his head, far too preoccupied with the Big Picture to be worried about trivialities like a horrible, screaming death. "No, no. I'm worried about the effect his arrival will have on the timeline. I mean, jumping around temporally is really quite a risky thing. A very bad thing to do."  
  
Rowena, Solvarr and Helga all suddenly had coughing fits.  
  
After waiting a few moments for the strange outbreak of throat irritation to subside, Draco advanced a point very cautiously. "Well, what were you planning to do today?"  
  
"Oh, redecorate the castle," Rowena spoke up from the corner where she was curled up like a kitten [or rather, like a kitten getting hourly shots of crack cocaine]. "We were going to change our rooms. Godric wanted a pretty red tower and Salazar's taking the dungeons and making them all jealous with green.and I'm painting my room a lovely blue. It's so pretty. Like the sky. Do you think I should paint little birdies in it?"  
  
"Is she.normally.like this?" Draco whispered to Solvarr.  
  
The Founder shrugged slightly. "In the mornings. By evening her grey matter seems to return somewhat."  
  
"Drugs?"  
  
"No," he shrugged. "None of us have a clue. I think she's just not a morning person."  
  
Draco coughed and got back to his point. "Oh, wait, you're talking about the common rooms," he suddenly stood stock still and looked around, his eyes travelling upward to the ceiling enchanted to look like the sky. How had he not noticed that before [granted, he had been a little distracted by Rowena's chest and getting as far away from it as possible, an activity he hadn't had much practice at and therefore needed all his concentration to succeed]? "Oh God. We're in Scotland, aren't we?"  
  
"Yes! How did you know? It's the air, isn't it? Scotland has such a bracing- ,"  
  
Solvarr cut Godric's nationalistic fervour off quickly. "Why is it important?"  
  
"Well, I have news for you, ladies and gentlemen," Draco smiled and related with relish. Not impressed by the future, were they? This would certainly impress them. "You are the Founders of the most illustrious Wizarding School in Britain, and, dare I say, around the world- Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.and this," he gestured grandiosely to the surroundings. "Is Hogwarts castle. You have exactly-," he paused for a moment and leaned closer and whispered. "What date is it, Solvarr?"  
  
The wizard grinned, quite amused by his revelations. "December 23rd 920 AD."  
  
Draco Malfoy suppressed a groan. Hogwarts, in the normal timeline, had been founded in the year 920. There was no time to lose. "You have exactly eight days to Found it."  
  
Helga actually began to laugh. "Are you telling me that if you hadn't arrived, we would have founded a bloody school in eight days?"  
  
"Yes," the wizard from the future had a very determined look on his face. "Now, the only way the Handyman is going to let me out of this situation alive is if everything remains the same. Which means," his grey eyes glittered [whether it was fear or opportunity Solvarr couldn't tell]. "I'm going to make sure that you do."  
  
*  
  
"And now we have selections for the more refined Wizard."  
  
The radio crackled to life with the golden oldies as the humans, Gods and Handyman looked at each other.  
  
"Hello," Dumbledore said sensibly. "Are you all right?"  
  
"Perfectly, dear old chap, and yourself?" Cronos was equally polite, but a nudge in the ribs fixed that. "Er- where are we, may we ask?"  
  
"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, 1999," he supplied helpfully, raising one eyebrow as the wing that had been attacking the whomping willow now headed towards the glass houses. "What are you looking for?"  
  
"The under Goddess of Mayhem," the Handyman recognised sanity when he saw it, ignoring the close-to-babbling-madly expressions on Percy and Cornelius' faces. "Is she around here, do you think? This-," he indicated the agitated castle. "Seems quite her style. Oh, I'm the Handyman and this is the-," he rolled his eyes. "Master of Time."  
  
The wizard shook his head. "I'm not quite sure," he winced slightly as the panes of the glasshouse shattered and the pile of stone began crushing the plants within, breaking the pots of the as-yet-unmatured Mandrakes. "Er, Mr Weasley, Mr Fudge, do cover your ea-," the shrieks of the mandrakes rang out before he could complete his warning and the double thud of two bodies hitting the ground indicated the uselessness of completing his sentence. "Oh dear," Albus Dumbledore sighed. "Neville's going to be so upset."  
  
"Neville?" Cronos looked up very suddenly. "As in Neville Longbottom?"  
  
"Why yes," the Headmaster was mildly surprised that the Master of Time would be interested in a nineteen year old boy. "How did you know? He's our Herbology teaching aide. Holidaying in London. He loved those mandrakes."  
  
The Handyman began to giggle. "He's a teaching aide!"  
  
"How do you know him?"  
  
"Let's just say that 'Neville', well, there was a time when he wasn't quite all human," the Handyman turned towards Cronos, who was now very occupied in examining Minister Fudge's pinstriped cloak. "Cronos, hear that? I'll bet your dear darling would find oodles to talk to Neville Longbottom about. Don't you think?"  
  
"As you say, old boy. Say," he glanced at Dumbledore. "Do you think the chap would mind if I nicked his cloak? It's jolly nice. Wonderful fabric."  
  
"No, not at all," Dumbledore replied absently. "I'm not sure where Neville is, though."  
  
At that precise moment, the powers of impossible coincidentality decided it was about time that they got themselves involved.  
  
"And now, the absolutely divine tunes of Celestina Warbeck.brought to you on Wizard Radio."  
  
A powerful female voice sang out.  
  
The Handyman paused in shock. He grabbed Cronos, shaking him as he did so just for good measure. "Recognise that?"  
  
The God tilted his head to one side before a smile of recognition appeared. "She always had such a beautiful singing voice."  
  
"I should have bloody expected May to pull something like this," the temporal regulator huffed, turning towards Dumbledore. "All right, where can we find Celestina Warbeck?"  
  
*  
  
Author's Note:  
  
Yes, it has been a horrendous amount of time since I updated. I've been going through a spell of HESTD-related writer's block but hopefully it has been banished. Still, I'm aiming for a conclusion in one more chapter, plus a possible epilogue, so watch out for those in the near future. I am very sorry about the delay, and hope you forgive me *puppy eyes* : )  
  
A lot of inspiration in this chapter, but nothing really to credit [then again, I could just be too lazy to type everything out here *g*] Just one thing- the reference to the mist-formations is for Gina, because I loff her.  
  
To all my reveiwers so far, you've made my day- each and every one of you. Indarae, Jive, LovelyLulu, Admantius, Ennia, Hoshizora, J-Kid [Small Gods is my favourite as well!], Ayla Pascal [Helga's not evil, just misunderstood :)], Baldutha228877, Weaver [*grins* nah, I won't even tell you how sweet you are!], Kelly M [*hugs*], Niqui, I really appreciate it.  
  
Special mention to Weaver [http://www.livejournal.com/~singingweaver] because she's such a wonderfully great girl whose lovely reviews make me blush every time around, and all my LJ [*cough* very unupdated LJ] friends.  
  
This story will be updated very soon, so don't lose hope. Till then, please do give me feedback via the form or contact me at room_101@gmx.net or contact me on AIM, my screenname is marettegraves. I'd love to chat. 


End file.
